


Unacceptable

by Barcardivodka



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:16:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barcardivodka/pseuds/Barcardivodka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With their latest case heading no where, Lewis starts to worry about his sergeant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beaten

“Oh, James lad,” Lewis whispered to himself as he entered the office and looked down at the sleeping form of his sergeant. Hathaway was fast asleep, leaning back in his chair, his feet propped up on the desk and his jacket draped across him, covering his shoulders and torso. His right arm peeked out from behind the jacket, the shirtsleeve rolled up past the bent elbow, his hand supporting a cold compress against his right temple.

Lewis shook his head, astounded that Hathaway could not only fall asleep in that position, but maintain it as he slept. He walked around the side of the desk and crouched beside the sleeping man, trying to see what damage had been done without disturbing him.

It was the duty sergeant's phone call less than twenty minutes ago that had sent Lewis speeding through the streets of the city, thankfully free of traffic at such an early hour of the morning.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” the duty sergeant said after Lewis’ less than friendly greeting on the phone. “Thought you would like to know that Sergeant Hathaway is at the station, sir. He’s taken a bit of a beating.”

Lewis had gone cold at the words, snapping out that he was on his way. A bit of a beating... On the drive to the station he had wondered if they were the duty sergeant's words or Hathaway’s. How many times had Hathaway used that expression “a bit”? He'd said that he used to do a bit of rowing, knew a bit about this,knew a bit about that. Usually knowing "a bit" translated into Hathaway having an encyclopaedic knowledge of the subject. The phase "a bit of a beating" had filled Lewis with dread.

Lewis tried to peer round the edges of the compress. Hathaway’s right eye was bruised and swollen, and there were long narrow bruises on his forearm. Lewis had seen the like before; they came from fingers, wrapped around in a brutal grip, meaning that the lad fought off two attackers. One trying to hold him, while the other beat him Lewis deduced. The lad might look like a long strip of nothing, but he was quick and strong and fully capable of defending himself, far beyond what was taught at Sulhamstead.

Lewis reached out and reluctantly shook Hathaway’s shoulder. “James, lad,” he said softly. He needed to ascertain Hathaway's injuries and get him to the hospital for a check over. It was obvious he’d taken a punch or two to the head and Lewis was pretty sure sleeping and potential concussions wasn't a good mix.

“James,” Lewis repeated louder, shaking Hathaway's shoulder a little harder. “Up you pop,” he said smiling as Hathaway opened his eyes slowly. Well, Hathaway opened the left one at least. A frown appeared as he blinked in confusion, trying to work out what had woken him. Hathaway shifted his head slightly and blinked at him, Lewis smiled as the lad’s undamaged eye suddenly widened and he struggled to sit up.

“Easy, lad,” Lewis cautioned, “take it slowly”, he added as he helped Hathaway to sit up.

“Sorry, sir,” Hathaway croaked out, “I meant to phone you.” He pulled the jacket from his body. “I’ve...”

“Bloody hell, James!” Lewis bellowed, standing up in shock.

“Sir?” Hathaway blurted out in bewilderment, looking around the room for the cause of the Lewis' ire as he began to rise from his seat and was promptly pushed back down by Lewis.

“Your arm, lad,” Lewis waved a hand at Hathaway’s plaster encased left forearm, letting out a disapproving sigh at the lack of a sling. Hathaway looked down at the arm and then back up at Lewis.

“It’s broken, sir,” he replied, frowning down again at the pristine white cast.

“Well, I can see that, you daft bugger,“ Lewis said in exasperation. “Look at you,” he said, crouching down once again and examining Hathaway’s battered face. “At least you went to the hospital, that’s something, I guess. Can you see out of that eye?” He gently took Hathaway’s chin between thumb and forefinger and examined the damage more closely.

“I’m fine, sir,” Hathaway said as he freed himself from Lewis’ hand. “Just some bruising. My arm’s the worst of it.” Lewis nodded, picking up the discarded cold pack from where it had fallen to the floor and passed it to Hathaway. Lewis stood up and perched himself on the edge of Hathaway’s desk.

“Come on, then,” Lewis demanded softly “out with it.”

Hathaway sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, bringing the cold compress back to his face. “Anna Ivakina, sir.” 

“Ah,” Robbie said.

Anna Ivakina. Their latest case. An eighteen year old Russian national, studying Academic English at one of Oxford’s many language schools. Found murdered in Gillian’s Park east of the city in the suburb of Blackbird Leys. By all accounts a beautiful young woman, inside and out. Kind, generous, friendly, popular. Her fellow classmates and host family having nothing but good things to say about her.

From the time she left her host family's house in Blackbird Leys, when the husband of the host family had dropped her at Cowley Centre, to the moment she stepped off the late night estate bus, she had never been alone. Witness statements corroborate that she had been in no altercations before her brutal murder. She had been by all accounts a happy, carefree, young adult, enjoying her studies and her first trip abroad.

The only discrepancy was her late night visit to Gillian’s Park. She’d got off the last bus to the estate, two stops before the host family’s house, alighting at Windale Avenue and walking into the newer estate of Greater Leys. The CCTV cameras outside the local Spar shop and medical centre next door timed her walk to the park at 2.37am. She wasn’t followed. Her body language was relaxed, her pace was unhurried. She was found dead by an early morning dog walker just before 6am. Her naked, battered body dumped in the rubbish strewn brook that marked the park boundary.

Lewis frowned as Hathaway placed the cold compress on the desk and winched as he stretched his arm out to pick up a file. Hathaway had taken the case to heart. Every once in a while one got under your skin. One you couldn’t let go of, one that made you not want to admit defeat, one that haunted you for the rest of your life. A policeman’s lot is not a happy one, popped into Lewis’ mind.

“I spent the evening going through all the witness statements and the timeline,” Hathaway said, the file still clenched in his hand. “I thought I would do another check of the bars and clubs she went to,” he added, “show her picture again.” Hathaway shook his head, “nobody remembered anything new, sir.”

“Aye, lad,” Lewis said, not faulting the Hathaway for trying to shake something loose, no matter how many times they had been over the same ground before. “Then you went on to the park,” Lewis said, earning a startled look from Hathaway, Lewis smiled. “Well, you didn’t get into it outside a pub down the Cowley Road or the city centre. Uniform would have been involved and I’d have known a damn sight sooner."

“Got an informant keeping an eye on me then, sir?” Hathaway said, the tone was light, but Lewis heard the undertone of disappointment.

Lewis smiled as he leaned forward and squeezed Hathaway’s shoulder. “For someone so clever, you can’t half be a bit thick sometimes, you silly sod.” He laughed.

“Sir,” Hathaway bit out, a look of indignation on his face.

Lewis shook his head in amusement. “An informant? You have no idea, do you lad?” The indignation left Hathaway’s face to be replaced with confusion. Lewis patted his shoulder. ”We’ve had our disagreements and you know how I feel about you doing all-nighters,” Robbie said. “But I’d never stoop so low as to have others report your every move to me.” It was Robbie’s turn to look indignant, the expression quickly replaced with a smile.

“You’re a good copper, James. Believe it or not, you’re also a popular one too, amongst the constables and the other sergeants,” Robbie said, letting out a huff of laughter at the look of total disbelief that crossed Hathaway’s face. “Aye, it’s true. Been stopped a time or two because they’ve been worried about you…”

“More likely trying to stitch me up,” Hathaway mumbled sourly.

“Or respectfully telling me to stop running you ragged,” Lewis said. “That’s how I know you’ve been pulling god knows how many late nights and on practically every investigation too. And that you drink too much caffeine and smoke too many ciggies and I should make you eat at least one sensible meal a day.” 

“Who told you all that then, sir?” Hathaway asked.

“Innocent told me the last one. I got a right earful,” Lewis said. It was a couple of weeks back, when you had that right stinker of a cold. She took me to task over not looking after me sergeant better,” Lewis chuckled at the memory.

Hathaway stared at him in horror. “Tom on the front desk phoned me tonight, thought I would be interested you’d taken a beating,” Lewis paused. “He was right.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I truly meant to phone you, but with one thing and another,” Hathaway waved the file he was holding. Lewis reached out and took it from him.

“No apology necessary. I would have found out soon enough, won’t I?” Lewis said.He opened the file and flipped through the contents. “These the ones?” 

“Yes, sir. Tyson Peterson, did four years for possession with intent to supply.” Lewis looked at the photograph and information on Peterson that was in the file. He was a short thin white man, who had been in and out of rehab since his first arrest at the age of sixteen. He'd graduated to jail when he started to deal drugs at twenty-five. “Let out on licence six months ago,” Hathaway said, as Lewis moved onto the other two charge sheets.

“Then there’s Gary and Stefan Wilkes,” Hathaway said.

“Cousins?” Robbie said, as he looked down at the two contrasting photographs. They were young, twenty-one and nineteen and although they shared some similar features, and were both tall and well-muscled, Gary Wilkes was white and Stefan was mixed race, white/black.

“Brothers,” Hathaway said. “Different fathers. Both have records for criminal damage, burglary, ABH, joy riding and the like. Gary got eight weeks inside for his ABH conviction, served four. Stefan’s still working his way through community service and ASBOs,” Hathaway said, leaning his head against the back of the chair and closing his eyes, probing his swollen eye with fingers that trembled. Lewis leaned forward and gently grasped Hathaway’s wrist, pulling it away.

“Leave it alone,” Lewis ordered, letting go of Hathaway's wrist as Hathaway tried to glare at him, the effect ruined by the way nearly swollen shut eye. “What did the doctor say about your eye?” Lewis picked up the cold compress. It had lost much of its cool by now. He handed it back to Hathaway, and gave him a pointed look to go with it. Hathaway put it back up against his eye..

“It’s fine, sir,” he said.

“Not what I asked, James,” Lewis said..

Hathaway sat up straighter, trying without success to cover a wince as he jostled his broken arm. “It was just a couple of punches, sir. I have an appointment at the eye hospital next week, just to make sure everything’s okay, when the swelling’s gone down.” 

“And your arm?” Lewis asked.

“Sir?” 

“Where’s your bloody sling, man?” Lewis ground out in frustration.

“Oh.” Hathaway looked round the office. “I did have one, sir. I’m not sure where I put it.” 

“Excuse me, sarge. Oh, morning, sir,” Constable Peter Rawlings greeted them as he walked into the room. He was a young lad, who'd been a police officer for only three or four years, but with a good head on his shoulders,even if he was still a little excitable. Lewis nodded in greeting. “Hooper asked me to pop up, sarge,” Rawlings said brightly, a bit too brightly for such an early hour. “They’ve just brought the Wilkes brothers in. You were right; they scarpered back to their mum’s. Sergeant Shepherd’s booking them in now.".

Lewis looked over at Hathaway, who smirked and started to shrug but suddenly stilled, a pain-filled grimace marring his features.

“James?” Lewis moved towards the younger man, squatting down beside him.

“I’m fine, sir,” Hathaway said, his hoarse voice making a lie of his words.

“Should I fetch the police surgeon, sir?” Rawlings chimed in. “He’s downstairs seeing to the Wilkes brothers. The sarge broke one of their noses, and the doc says the other’s going be singing soprano for a while, if you catch my drift. Old Hooper was right gobsmacked when he saw the state of them, couldn’t believe the Sarge could ….” Rawlings finally noticed Robbie’s glare, “I’ll just get back..to...the...erm…” Rawlings left the room walking backwards, seemingly afraid to take his eyes off Lewis until he was safely out the door.

“And where are you going?” Lewis asked sharply as Hathaway struggled to get up from his chair, the now useless compress falling to the floor.

“I need to get their statements, sir, and then get my report finished, so that…” Hathaway stopped as Lewis stood up and placed a hand on each of the arms of the chair and invaded his personal space.

“James, you can’t take their statements, they assaulted you, you can’t have anything to do with them. You know that, lad,” Robbie said.

“But sir, they may have information regarding Anna, I….” 

“No, James,” Lewis added firmly. “I’ll take their statements, and I’ll take yours and I’ll get everyone out looking for Peterson…… what?” Robbie stood up straight taking his hands from the arms of the chair and folding them across his chest as James reddened.

Hathaway had a sudden fascination with his cast. “Peterson’s already in custody, sir.” 

“You went after him? After you got into it with the Wilkes brothers? After they broke your arm? Bloody hell, Hathaway,” Lewis exclaimed. “You and I are going to have a serious chat, James. You can’t keep pushing yourself like this. “Right, come on. You’re going home and you’re going to bloody stay there till I say different.” Lewis picked up Hathaway’s discarded jacket and draped it over his arm as he held out the other to Hathaway and helped him out of the chair. He gripped Hathaway's elbow firmly as Hathaway swayed for a moment.

“Sir, the charges won’t stick,” James said. He cradled his cast against his body and supported it with his good one. “The assault charges, I mean. It’s their word against mine. They can say I started it, the CPS won’t touch it, but we might be able to get them to give something up about the night Anna was murdered. With a bit of clever interviewing sir, turn them on each other……”

“James, lad,” Lewis said said, “you’re going home. I’m going to stay with you for a bit, but you’re not going anywhere near Peterson or the Wilkes brothers.”

“But, sir,” Hathaway protested.

“That’s an order, sergeant,” Robbie said. “James, you’ve been up working all night. You’ve run yourself ragged on this case, you’re hurt, and frankly you’re worrying the hell of me.”

Maybe worry wasn’t the right word. Perhaps someone other than Lewis wouldn’t have noticed, but after so many years working with the Hathaway, Lewis considered himself fairly good at reading him and right now pain radiated from Hathaway in waves, physically and emotionally. It made Robbie uneasy, apprehension curling heavy in his gut. Since getting to his feet, Hathaway had paled considerably. The bruising on his face stood out in starkly in contrast, his good eye becoming glassy and unfocused. No, worry wasn’t the right word; it was fear, fear for his sergeant’s well-being and fear that Lewis had let him down.

Hathaway was a good detective, able to look at all their cases with a sense of detachment, unless old friends and acquaintances were involved. But Lewis had known that Hathaway's objectivity on this case was long gone, and although he had kept his professionalism when dealing with his colleagues, Hathaway had pushed himself hard and Lewis hadn’t reined him in.

Anna's remains had been identified quickly, as her host family had already reported her missing. The autopsy confirmed Laura Hobson’s preliminary on-site examination, that Anna had been beaten and raped. The cause of death was strangulation sometime between three and four thirty in the morning. Very little evidence was found on her body, it having been submerged in water.

A fingertip search of the park had turned up nothing. No clothes, handbag, or phone. Door to door enquiries of the houses surrounding the park had proven fruitless. They had turned up no viable reason why Anna would have gone to the park that night. A week on, and the case had ground to a halt, and they were left waiting for the forensics results in the slight hope that it might spark more leads. Anna Ivakina's murder was destined to become an unsolved case and as the investigation had run out of steam, Hathaway had become more desperate, frantically trying to find an answer as to why just a young, promising life had been so brutally cut short and to allow Anna to rest in peace, knowing justice had been served.

“Come on, James,” Lewis said gently, “let’s get you home. We’ll have a chat once you’ve had some rest, eh?”

Hathaway conceded with a weary nod.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With my unreserved apology for the unacceptable delay in posting the conclusion.

Putting Hathaway up in his spare bedroom had not been Lewis’ intention.  Hathaway was certainly welcome, but Lewis had thought that he would feel more comfortable recovering in his own home.  The state of Hathaway’s flat, however, had horrified Lewis.

He’d left the lad sleeping in the car whilst he’d gone inside. On opening the front door, he’d been assaulted by the smell of rotting rubbish and stale cigarette smoke. Stepping over the threshold, he’d stood dumbfounded at the sight that greeted him.

The flat, although having a lived-in feel, had always been tidy and clean whenever he’d called round in the past. The sight before him had been one of disarray, with papers strewn across every surface. Large sheets from a flipchart, full of Hathaway’s carefully printed writing, had been tacked across the bookcase, making an impromptu whiteboard. Lewis had moved further into the room and scooped up a pile of papers from the coffee table.  They were a mix of handwritten notes and photocopied reports, all relating to Anna Ivakina’s murder case.

Dismay had washed over him in bitter waves.  As he shuffled the papers on the coffee table into an untidy pile, he’d uncovered a large glass ashtray full to the brim with cigarette butts, its sour smell becoming  more pungent now it was exposed.  Several unlit cigarettes had been  torn and crumbled next to the ashtray, and  shreds of tobacco had  fallen and been ground into the carpet.

Apprehensively, Lewis had abandoned the papers and moved to the kitchen. A check of the bin showed it half full of uneaten food, a mixture of noodles and naan bread and other staple take-away items. The fridge was empty apart from  half a pint of milk and a lump of something Lewis concluded was once cheese but was now furred with green mould. Dirty mugs, glasses and cutlery cluttered the worktops.   Beside the bin was a recycling box full of items ready to be put out for collection. Inside it were  a few take-way containers, a pizza box and an empty Choco Pops cereal box.  What held Lewis’ attention though were the countless beer and wine bottles. He’d rummaged through the box trying to determine if the bottles had accumulated over a period of time, or if they were all recent additions. The two empty scotch  bottles just increased his concern.

A decision made, he’d headed for Hathaway’s bedroom.  Finding a sports bag in the wardrobe, he'd filled it with enough clothes and necessary toiletries to last Hathaway a few days.

With a heavy heart he’d closed the door on the flat and headed back to his car.

Lewis was jolted back to the present when a hand brushed against his shoulder.

“He’ll be fine, Robbie,” Hobson assured as he turned to look at her.

After getting Hathaway to his spare bedroom, Lewis had, as gently as possible, manhandled Hathaway into pyjama bottoms and a white t-shirt.  Getting Hathaway’s work shirt off had been a relatively simple process compared trying to get the t-shirt on, and Lewis had sworn quietly as he’d gingerly manoeuvred it over the lad’s head.  He’d baulked at trying to get Hathaway’s cast through the armhole, and instead had taken a pair of scissors to the shirt.

A worried phone call to Hobson had resulted in her arriving on his doorstop twenty minutes later; ten minutes after that she had Hathaway’s t-shirt on properly and his arm securely strapped across his chest and an assurance that it was quite normal for Hathaway to be groggy and to practically fall asleep standing up.

Hobson had agreed to stay with Hathaway so that Lewis could get back to the station and sort things out.  Innocent was already there by the time he had returned and, in her quiet way, had been somewhat aggrieved to have had one of her officers assaulted.

Together, they had interviewed Gary and Stefan Wilkes and Tyson Peterson, failing to get any information out of them about Anna Ivakina.  Innocent and Lewis had both agreed that they weren’t involved in Anna’s murder.  There was nothing to connect them to the murder scene and all three had been almost frantic to provide proof of their whereabouts on the night of the murder, admitting to drug dealing to give themselves alibis. They were rattled enough by being questioned about a murder to confess to assaulting Hathaway, not wanting to be caught with drugs on them.  Innocent had charged them with assaulting a police officer and drug dealing. Lewis had been caught between rage at the unfair fight, pride that Hathaway had not only detained Peterson but fought off the Wilkes as well, and despair that the lad had felt compelled to canvas the pubs and clubs and then to return to the crime scene alone. Hathaway was a sergeant; he should have commandeered a constable to go with him at the very least.

He turned his gaze back to Hathaway; who slept soundly, his broken arm angled across his chest and securely bound. His bruised and swollen face looked, if possible, even more spectacular and certainly more painful.

“He’s been asleep over six hours, is he okay?”

“He’ll be fine, Robbie,” Hobson reiterated with a smile. “On top of working all night and the painkillers, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s out of it for another few hours. He’ll be very uncomfortable for a few days, but that eye is really the only concern.  Thankfully the A&E staff got his contact lenses out before it swelled up completely.”

In quiet despair Lewis rubbed a hand across his eyes.  “He’s taken this case to heart, Laura,” he said quietly.   “His flats a bloody mess and he hasn’t been looking after himself, and I didn’t notice.” He turned to look at Hobson. “I didn’t notice.”

“You’ll get to the bottom of this one,” Hobson reassured him, as she squeezed Lewis’ shoulder in support.

Lewis shook his head.  “Not this time,” he admitted bitterly. “We’ve got nothing.  Innocent has charged the yobs that attacked James with assaulting a police officer and for possession of a Class A drug with intent. But if they were involved in young Anna’s death, we can’t prove it. And they’re more than happy to confess to drug dealing on the Wood Farm Estate at the time of her murder.”

“They’ve confessed to it, but can it be proved?  Could they be making it up to save their collective necks?”  Laura looked hard at Lewis.

He nodded sadly.  “There’d been a call on the night of the murder from one of the Neighbourhood Watch ladies about a bunch of lads she suspected of dealing.  We bought her in and she picked the three of the out of two separate line-ups.  I’ve never seen anyone so relieved about being identified before.”

With one last look at Hathaway, Lewis walked from the bedroom door and made his way into the kitchen and filled the kettle.

“You must have had a case or two in your time that made you react the same way as James,” Hobson said as she sat down at the table.

“Aye, there was more than a couple,” Lewis admitted as he added milk and tea bags to two mugs. “The difference being though, that although they ate away at me, I had Val, then the kids.” He turned to face Hobson. “Having a family to come home to, a wife to talk to, kids to hug, it made it easier. You were forced to let some of it go. It gave you some space, time to clear your head, but...” Lewis let out a heavy sigh and he turned back to the boiling kettle.

“You never forget them,” Hobson finished off for him, sadness lacing her voice. “And James has no one to lighten his burden.”

“He could have come to me.” Lewis placed the two mugs of tea on the table and sat down opposite Hobson. “I should have known that this one had got to him. I knew he was putting in some long hours. Dammit Laura, I should have done something sooner. He went off, without backup, trying to shake something loose.” Lewis abruptly pushed away from the table and stood  up, stalking the two steps to the counter and back to the table as he ran an agitated hand through his hair. “What if he’s damaged that eye, Laura? He could be pulled from active duty. What the hell was he thinking?”

“Don’t going borrowing trouble, Robbie,” Laura warned gently. “There’s nothing to suggest that James won’t heal properly, and if there is some damage it may very well be easily treated.”  Hobson took a sip of her cooling tea, as if needing the time to consider her next words. “James needs your support, Robbie. Don’t take your guilty feelings out on him. He doesn’t deserve it.”

Lewis was about to deny Hobson’s allegation when he saw Hathaway shuffle into the room.

“James! What are you doing out of bed lad?” Lewis made his way across the room and gently grabbed the younger man’s right arm as Hathaway started to sway backwards.

“Let’s get him sat down,” Hobson said as she appeared at Hathaway’s left side.

“I’m fine,” Hathaway stated, but gave no protest as he was led to the sofa.  He sunk  down into the cushions with a relieved sigh and  closed  his eyes as he leant his head against the back of the sofa.

Hobson grabbed a couple of throw cushions and pushed them between the arm of the sofa and the bottom of Hathaway’s left elbow, giving the strapped arm some extra support.

“How’s that?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” Hathaway repeated.

“Yeah, you keep saying that,” Lewis said.  “Still don’t believe it.” He sat down on the coffee table in front of Hathaway.  God, he looked rough.  The right side of Hathaway’s face was swollen with bruising. Lewis couldn’t decide if the lad was incredibly pale or if it was the black and purple contusions that made the rest of his face look pallid.

“Here,” Hobson suddenly said from beside them. “Drink this and take these, James.” She held a mug in one hand and in the open palm of the other were two white pills.

Hathaway took the mug, giving Hobson a quick lop-sided smile as he noted the contents.

“I didn’t think you’d feeling like eating just yet,” she explained. “But you need to have something and some warm milk and honey will help your stomach, especially with taking these.” She jiggled the pills in her hand.

“No, I’m fine,” Hathaway refused, taking a sip from the mug.

“James,” Robbie warned.

“They make me feel groggy, sir,” Hathaway explained. “My head still feels fuzzy.”

“You’re feeling groggy, James, because your body needs to rest and recover,” Hobson stated firmly, offering the pills to Hathaway once again. “These are just painkillers and you’ll need them very soon. Your last dose was over six hours ago.”

Lewis gently took the mug from Hathaway as Hobson passed the pills over to the reluctant man. Lewis handed the mug back over so Hathaway could swallow the pills down.

“Good boy,” Hobson smiled, as she gently ruffled Hathaway’s hair. “Right, I’m going to leave you boys alone.  Behave yourselves.”

Lewis stood up from the coffee table and walked Hobson to the door.

“Thank you for staying with him.”

“He really will be fine, Robbie. He just needs some rest. He’ll probably want to go home tomorrow if  he’s feeling better, and it’s okay for him to do that,” Hobson said kindly.

“I know,” Lewis smiled. “But we need to have chat first and he’s not going back to his flat until I’ve tidied it up and got some food in,” he stated.

“Don’t be too hard on him, it wasn’t entirely his fault, remember,” Hobson said as she opened the door and, with a quick pat on Lewis’ arm, left the flat.

When he went back to the living room, Hathaway had fallen asleep on the sofa.  Lewis didn’t know how he was going to tell him they still didn’t have Anna’s murderer.  It would bring little comfort to the lad to know the Wilkes and Peterson had admitted to assaulting him.  Lewis decided though, it wouldn’t be today.  Instead, he would do his best to convince Hathaway to stay a couple of nights, at least until he could get Hathaway’s flat in some sense of order, and then he would find the right moment.

Lewis promised himself to keep a better watch over Hathaway in future, resolving to never let him again bear such a weight alone. They’d have to talk at some point.  Lewis would encourage Hathaway to tell him next time a case burdened him down so much.  They would work it out together.  They’d always managed to work things out between them in the past, haven’t they? 

But Anna  would become an unsolved case and he and Hathaway would have to let her go, and move on to the next one. The forensic evidence  would be stored, the paperwork filed and the database updated, ready and waiting for the day that something came along that would reopen the case.  And Lewis knew that a copy of all the reports – forensic, post-mortem, witness statements, police activity – would always be in Hathaway’s possession, waiting for the day Anna received justice.  

Anna Ivakina would never be forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With grateful thanks to Somniare


End file.
